Oh, rest in peace, dear flat tire number five of two-thousand and nine.
I will always hold fond memories of you first going flat when Dad was here, inspiring him to buy me a portable air tank as a belated birthday present, then airing you up and believing you were miraculously healed...
...Until tonight, at least, when you blew out on 69 highway in total darkness, in the cold drizzle. I cursed your name into the night as my heels sunk into the mud along the side of the road. I sang the praises of your fully-inflated comrads as I finally pulled into the driveway.
And Saturday you'll be fixed.
Or you won't, and you'll be replaced, just like the four that went before you.
So rest in peace dear tire number five, while I log into Ameritrade and buy 10 more shares of Goodyear!